


Wildflower

by grandilloquism



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hallucinations, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Synesthesia, hallucinations used as plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandilloquism/pseuds/grandilloquism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The tiniest of smiles flickers to life and he closes the space between them, Sirius lifts his head in expectation but Remus places his kiss on Sirius’ forehead; they rest like that for a moment, each breathing warmly onto the other.  </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wildflower

**Author's Note:**

> Very odd bit of fic here, but I've been in a very odd sort of mood.  It didn't exactly go where I wanted it to, either, but maybe this is nicer. 

    There is a purple flower growing in the floor.  It is not always purple, sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, it is green, or pink, or striped.  It seems a good idea to catch it shifting from one colour to the other, but no matter how quickly, or slowly, he turns his neck he never sees it.  He wonders, quite deeply, for a moment whether it is the flower changing colours or his eyes seeing different colours.  This bothers him.

    Finally, he asks, “Moony?”

    Remus makes a questioning noise that sounds vaguely blue.

    “What colour is the flower?”

    He looks up at him, concern and amusement warring in his features, “What flower?”

    Sirius points vaguely to the floorboards with his toes, he is surprised to see that there is a sock there.  He pulls it off, exposing one pale, finely boned foot.  For a moment it fascinates him; the anatomy of his foot, the shifting glide of bones and tendons and muscle under skin.  He misses Remus’ answer.

    He makes a questioning noise of his own, low in his throat: this one sounds mustard yellow.  “Good mustard, though,” he says.  “Brown-ey.”

    “Yes, of course.”  Remus agrees, amusement winning out.  “The flower?”

    Sirius cants his head to one side, birdlike, watching Remus in the half light out of one eye, “What flower?”  
    Remus nods his head in the direction that Sirius had already indicated, words a kind of sparkling blue, “That one.”

    Sirius looks to the flower and blinks several times in succession.  The flower is amethyst and lime, each vein of colour bleeding into the other.  “I don’t think the flower is real, Moony.”

    “But you see it, don’t you?”  His logic is heavy and indigo; it makes Sirius’ neck itch.

    He turns his head slowly, keeping the flower in his peripheral, when he finally looses sight of it he whips his head around.  It is still there, unicorn white. “Ye- _ees_ ,” he answers cautiously, drawing the saffron word out.  “I see it.”

    “Perhaps it isn’t the same flower,” though the tone is grave the words themselves float up on aqua bubbles.  He watches them until they pop against the ceiling, imploding in little drops of bright liquid sound.  Startled he looks back down to the floor for the flower- blacker than a thestral’s wing.

    “Bloody fucking morbid flower.”   

    “What colour is the flower?” Remus asks, and Sirius feels the repetition of the statement but he can’t remember why. 

    “Dunno,” he says, itching the bottom of his foot absently.  “Can fake flowers have real colours?”

    His answer is as brightly green as his question, “If a flower isn’t real does that make it fake?”

    Sirius scowls down at his feet, he wonders what happened to his other sock.  “Imaginary,” Sirius says, watching the brown petals sway in a nonexistent breeze and wondering whether it’s dying.  “Can something imaginary die?”

    “Everything can die, Sirius.” 

    “ _Yes_ ,” he breathes softly, with that same uncanny sense of repetition, the word blushes rosy as dawn.  He looks up to Remus, who is still watching Sirius with a kind of softness in his expression that can only be described as butterscotch.  For a handful of seconds he sees him completely, sharply, each angle and curve uniquely defined and he feels like he’s choking on air. 

    “Will you kiss me, Moony?” he asks when he can breathe again, when that clarity fades and Moony is his again.

    The tiniest of smiles flickers to life and he closes the space between them, Sirius lifts his head in expectation but Remus places his kiss on Sirius’ forehead; they rest like that for a moment, each breathing warmly onto the other. 

    It is a golden moment, sparking magnesium flare bright into the darkness.


End file.
